


Come Home To My Heart

by overflow



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: M/M, elio is determined to completely isolate himself and be sad all the time, oliver is determined to be in elio's life, your classic elio moves to ny and they get back together fic except way more fucked up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-26 01:14:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14989541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overflow/pseuds/overflow
Summary: New York may have been where we both belonged alone, but we certainly didn’t belong there together.  I wished I hadn’t gone out that night.  How had I managed to run into Oliver after only two months in New York?  My idea that I could seize power by being geographically close to him without contacting him was clearly false.  I had no power.  Only the universe did, and the universe tore us apart and then threw us back together without caring how much it hurt, without caring that when it tore us up, it changed our shapes so severely that we no longer fit.Elio, as he stumbles his way into adulthood, into New York, and back into Oliver's life.  Also, he sends some emails.





	1. Chapter 1

It was the fall of 1984, email was new, and I had just moved to New York City to go attend Julliard.  I had been accepted to a few different conservatories, but it ultimately came down to Julliard versus Conservatoire de Paris.  I held them in about equal esteem, and for a while I leaned towards Conservatoire de Paris as that would maintain the ocean between Oliver and me.  But I ultimately chose Julliard because I liked the idea of being in the same city as him without ever seeing him. Something about having the ability to see him easily but choosing not to seemed appealing, as it gave me the power over him that I always seeked.

 

Of course, what would truly be power would be to not care at all, and I knew this.  I knew it was pathetic to base my college decision on Oliver, but it could have been worse.  I could have applied to Columbia, or worse, not applied to any colleges in the states in an effort to avoid him.  Julliard was perfect--close, but not too close. Close enough to prove that it didn’t hurt to be near Oliver, but not so close that it seemed as though I’m aching to see him.  I was desperate to prove to him that I didn’t care, that he hadn’t hurt me, and that he never mattered to me at all.

 

This was true, to an extent.  I began to see that Oliver was not who I thought he was, and that our relationship was not what I thought it was.  A summer fling, that was all. A crush. And Oliver had led me on. I was quite upset. Sobbed into my pillows most nights, sat with my father as I silently cried but said nothing, stopped going out with my friends.  I wanted Oliver to see my anguish and come back. But eventually I understood that he never would, and that I had to stop crying all the time. I became obsessed with being perfect, with being unaffected by the entire thing.  I got perfect grades, I practiced at the piano for hours at a time. I went out with my friends more often, no matter how boring I found them. I even jogged. I wanted Oliver to see this too, to see how well I was doing. At every moment of every day, all I could think was: _what if Oliver can see me right now?_ And what would he see?  Me, doing my homework. Me, playing something beautiful at the piano.  Me, being accepted to the best music conservatories in the world.

 

How would he react?  Would he be proud? Happy?  Impressed? Would he even care?

 

My parents offered to fly to New York with me and help me move into my dorm, but I rejected their help.  I wanted to be in America by myself. But when I got to the dorm building, everyone else had their parents there, setting up their beds and unpacking their wardrobes.  I was the only one who was alone.

 

My roommate’s name was Jamie.  He was a drama major from North Carolina, and had a pretty strong southern accent, but I liked it.  He spoke slowly, the R’s in every word barely pronounced, sounding like some rich southern politician from 40 years ago.  It was the accent that rich slave-owners had in the movies, although I wasn’t sure if that was what they sounded like in real life, and despite the morbid history, I liked the sound of it.  It seemed like a remnant of a bygone era, and it made me nostalgic for something that never existed. It reminded me that there were places I had never been, and never would go.

 

There was a cord attached to the wall, connecting to nothing.

 

“What’s this for?” I asked, holding it up.  “Are we supposed to hang ourselves with it?”

 

Jamie barked out a laugh, relieving me of my worry that he wouldn’t understand my humor.  “It’s an ethernet cord,” he said.

 

I stared at him, uncomprehending.

 

“For the computer.”

 

I looked back at the desk.  There was no computer there.

 

“Do you... not have computers in Italy?”

 

I scoffed.  “Of course we have computers in Italy.”  But I had never spent much time on one. There was no computer either house, the one in Milan or the one in Crema, and my school had no computer library.  I would have to go the public library if I wanted to use one, but I never really did. I had no need for a computer, so I was pretty unfamiliar with them.

 

“You just plug the cord into the computer so that you can have internet.”

 

“But there’s no computer here.”

 

“Well, we’ll have to buy one.”

 

“They gave us an ethernet cord but no computer?”

 

“We can split the cost for one.”

 

“I don’t really need a computer.”

 

Jamie blinked.  “But you’ll need it for your email.”

 

“I don’t have an email.”

 

“They assigned us all one.”

 

“Oh.”  I hadn’t really paid much attention to all of the information we’d been sent over the summer.  “Well can’t I just use the ones at the library?”

 

“I guess, but you’ll want to have one here, in case you need to use it late at night.”

 

In the end, I got roped into splitting the cost of a computer that I didn’t really want.  I used the phone at the end of our hallway to ask my parents to send me a little more money to pay for it.  They reluctantly agreed, as they were not big fans of that type of technology, but didn’t want to hold me to their values now that I was an adult.

 

“Should I tell Oliver that you’ve moved to New York?” my father asked, near the end of the phone call.

 

“If you want,” I replied, trying to seem nonchalant.  Then I thought of how distracting Oliver would be if he he made an effort to meet up with me, and I modified my answer.  “Actually, no.”

 

“No?”

 

“We’ll see each other if we see each other.”

 

I adjusted fairly well to college life.  I liked that I only had to take classes that I enjoyed, and that when I played piano for hours on end without speaking to anyone, people would find it admirable.  I was a bit of a teacher’s pet, practicing more than anyone else and rising to the top of my class, but I couldn’t help it. In a country that was so foreign, I found comfort in the familiarity of the piano.

 

I felt rootless and disconnected in New York.  I had plenty of friends, but I didn’t particularly click with any of them that well, and I had no desire to go out of my way to spend time with them.  For the most part, they were friends of convenience. People I saw everyday in classes, people who lived on my floor. I had no doubt that when my class schedule changed and I moved out of the dorms the next year, I would lose touch with most of them.  I could never decide if this bothered me or not. On one hand, I felt painfully lonely, but on the other hand, I didn’t particularly feel like putting in the energy to ending my solitude. It just didn’t seem worth it.

 

The loneliness, as well as the ceaseless noise from the dorms and the bad food in the dining hall, were cured by an unexpected solution.  I found that there were many older men who liked me quite a bit, and were willing to take me out to dinner. From these dates, I was able to get a good-tasting meal and cold, somewhat violent sex.  I liked the feeling of being desirable, and being desirable to many people. It was proof that Oliver was not the only one who would want me. If he could marry someone else, I could fuck someone else.  Easy enough.

 

Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so angry with Oliver if he hadn’t gotten engaged so quickly.  If it had happened maybe six months later than it did, I would have understood. I may have even been happy for him.  But it happening as it had just seemed to say that I had never meant anything to him. He must have gotten back with her within a few weeks of returning to America.  While I was crying alone in my bed every night, he was with her. While I was staying up all night waiting for him to call, he was with her. He was happy. He was unaffected. He never had to get over me; there was never anything to get over.

 

Which was fine, I supposed.  I just wished he had told me that was the way it would be.  I just wish he hadn’t asked me _do you mind?_ as if my answer would have meant something, when it clearly wouldn’t have.  I wish he hadn’t ever touched me at all. Early in the summer, I thought that he had hated me, but then he convinced me otherwise.  But I was clearly right to start with. He hated me, hated me so much that he thought it would be funny to string me along and then toss me aside like some whore.

 

Well, if he thought of me as a whore, I could most certainly be one.  On the dates I went on, I kept thinking of him being able to see me again, the way I had during my last year of high school.  What would he think, if he could see me being pounded into the mattress by some man in his fifties? What would he think, watching me find my way home, alone at three in the morning, tossed out of the man’s apartment and barely able to walk straight?

 

Perhaps he wouldn’t care.  Or perhaps he would find it deeply unsettling, hurtful.  Perhaps it would reaffirm the deep fear inside him that he once disclosed to me: _I don’t want to mess you up._ I hoped for the latter.

 

He did end up seeing me.

 

I was at a bar with some guy--Gabe, maybe?  I couldn’t remember, but he was old--and Oliver saw me.  I was drinking a martini, on my third or fourth, trying to numb myself to what I knew was coming.  I never really enjoyed the sex. It was painful and demeaning, and yet I couldn’t stop myself from going back to it.  I knew that these guys were creeps, that they were taking advantage of me, but I didn’t care about that. In fact, I may have even liked it.  I liked being their victim.

 

Oliver must have seen me before I saw him, because suddenly he was standing next to me at the bar, staring at me.  He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

 

I gaped at him.  “Oliver?” I asked, needing confirmation that he was real, that he was standing right there next to me, that we were existing in the same world yet again.

 

I needed to get out of that world.

 

He nodded.  “Elio. Jesus Christ.  What are you doing in New York?”

 

I did not want to answer, but the words seemed to be tugged out of me.  “College.”

 

His eyes widen.  “You _live here?”_

 

“Yes,” I said.  I was only capable of these monosyllabic answers, unable to lie, but unable to go into detail either.  The shock of seeing him seemed to have knocked something in my brain loose.

Gabe, or, whoever he was, cleared his throat, and put his hand on my arm, which was currently resting on the bar.  “You two know each other?”

 

“Yes,” I said, grateful to have my attention turned back to someone I was prepared to talk to.  “He’s a friend of my father’s.”

 

I may as well have stabbed Oliver, from the look on his face, and I took some pleasure in that.   _There,_ I thought, _now you hurt too._

 

“How do... Who are...” Oliver looked back and forth between Gabe and I, clearly trying to decipher what the relationship is between us.  Gabe answers the question for him when he puts his hand on my shoulder and begins to rub up and down my arm. “Oh.”

“I’m kind of busy right now,” I said, smiling smugly.

 

Oliver looked horrified, which he was probably right to be, but I liked that.  I think that was one of the reasons that I had sex with these men. I knew that if other people found out, they would be worried, and I liked that.  I liked that I was worth worrying about.

 

“We--we haven’t seen each other in over a year now.  You can’t talk for a few minutes?”

 

I smiled again. “Like I said, I’m busy.”

 

Oliver leans forward, and whispers lowly, “Can I talk to you alone for a second?”  
  
I shook my head.  “I’m on a date, Oliver.”

 

He stared, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish.  

 

“You should go home to your wife,” I said, hoping it would hurt him.

 

It didn’t.  Instead, it seemed to soften him, and he had a sympathetic, almost pitying look on his face.  I hated it.

 

“Elio, can I just.  Speak to you. Privately.  For a second.”

 

“I’m on a date,” I repeated.”

 

“Whatever, go talk to him,” Gabe said, clearly annoyed at the progression of things.  I hated him for giving me this permission, I would have much rather he be terrible and controlling.  For him to seem overly possessive would have been far better, because it would give me an excuse not to talk to Oliver while also scaring the shit out of Oliver.  I enjoyed Oliver thinking that I was hanging around bad men. I enjoyed Oliver being concerned for my safety.

 

I reluctantly step down from my barstool, and swayed a little bit.  I was more drunk than I thought, I realized upon standing up. Oliver clearly caught this and immediately put his arm around my shoulders.  It was the first time we’d touched over a year. The last touch had been a hug, and this touch was this. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t loving. He was simply guiding me to where he wanted me to be, taking control over me, as he always did.  He was clearly trying to get me out of what he perceived as danger, unable to understand that he was the danger, he was the one who hurt me.

 

He dragged me outside and into some alleyway, as if that was somehow safer and better, just because he was there. It smelled like piss, and it was the middle of October, so it was chilly and windy by this point in the night.  I wanted to return to the sweaty, crammed heat of the overly expensive bar.

 

I rolled my eyes as soon as we arrived, crossing my arms against the cold.  The wind ruffled my thin shirt against my arms, and I wished I had cared less about showing off my body and more about keeping warm when I had gotten dressed.  “What do you want?”

“Saving you from that creep.  Jesus Christ, how old is he? Touching you like that...”  He kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if he didn’t know where or how to stand, where he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to do.  As if he wasn’t not in the right place, as if we were not in the right place.

 

And we weren’t.  New York may have been where we both belonged alone, but we certainly didn’t belong there together.  I wished I hadn’t gone out that night. How had I managed to run into Oliver after only two months in New York?  My idea that I could seize power by being geographically close to him without contacting him was clearly false. I had no power.  Only the universe did, and the universe tore us apart and then threw us back together without caring how much it hurt, without caring that when it tore us up, it changed our shapes so severely that we no longer fit.

 

“I didn’t need saving,” I spat, rubbing the toe of my boot against the pavement.  “I voluntarily went on a date with him.”

 

He grimaced.  “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

 

“That what’s a good idea?”

“Going on dates with other men.  In public. It’s dangerous, Elio.”

 

I rolled my eyes.  I hated it when he did this, when he lectured me as if I was a child.  “I’ve done it plenty of times before, and nothing bad has happened.” Except for once, when I went home with a guy I barely knew, and he tied me to the bed, blindfolded me and gagged me, and then just left.  It was hours before he returned. The encounter had my wrists and ankles bloody from pulling against the bounds, and when I returned to my dorm, Jamie had wanted to take me to the hospital. I refused, and refused to tell him what had happened.  I certainly wasn’t going to tell this North Carolina boy with the slave-master accent that I had sex with men. I tended towards self-destruction, but I didn’t tend _that_ far towards it.

 

“Then you’ve been lucky.  Elio, people get... beat up for things like that. You can’t be so conspicuous about it.”

 

“You didn’t seem nearly this reticent when we were kissing in the streets of Bergamo.”

 

“That was different.”

“Because I was kissing you and not someone else?”

“Because there weren’t other people around!”

 

“Whatever, Oliver.  No one even knew that we were on a date.”

 

“With the way he was touching you, yes they did.  What are you doing with him, anyway? He’s gotta be at least fifty.”

 

“What’s your point?”  
  
“It’s creepy, Elio.  You’re what, nineteen, now?”

 

He didn’t even know how old I was.  Did he think that I was eighteen that entire summer?  I was seventeen. Seventeen, not eighteen. Is that why he was so cold to me?  Because he thought I was a legal adult? Perhaps if he had known I was seventeen, he would have treated me better.

 

But he _had_ known I was seventeen.  I had brought it up. I had told him.  Perhaps he just didn’t care enough to remember?  But so much of his early rejections on me seemed to based on my age.

 

“Eighteen.”

 

“Right.  Eighteen.”

 

“Do you not how old I am?  Did you think I was eighteen when we were...?”

 

“No, I knew you were seventeen.  I just thought you may have had a birthday.”

 

“I did.  I had one birthday, in one year.  That’s the way math works.”

 

“Well, I thought that maybe your birthday may have been in September, and then at this point you would have had two--Why are we arguing about birthdays?”

 

“I don’t know, you’re the one who brought up my age.”

“Yes, because he is way too old for you.  Think about it. What would a fifty year old want with an eighteen year old?”

 

“I don’t know,” I responded.  “What would a twenty-four year old want with a seventeen year old?”

 

Oliver’s upper lip twitched, and his face reddened.  I’d made him angry. Good.

 

“That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

 

“Why not?”

  
“Because I was twenty-four, not fifty, and I wasn’t fucking bringing you around to New York bars and getting you shitfaced.”

 

“One, I’m not shitfaced, but two, you _did_ get me shitfaced in Bergamo, and even if I was shitfaced right now, that would be because I got myself shitfaced not because someone else did it to me!”

 

“So you _are_ shitfaced.”

 

I tried to calm myself down, trying to regain the upper-hand.  I was the one who had the power there, not him. I was the one who was jilted, I was the one who has the right to walk away and never speak to him again.  I stood up straight and tall, my hands shaking but my face indifferent. “It’s none of your business, really. It was nice to see you. I’m going to go back inside.”

 

Oliver’s face fell.  “You’re just gonna leave?”

 

I cocked an eyebrow.  “Later,” I said, and began to walk away.

 

Oliver grabbed my wrist as I walked, and I yanked it out of his grip with a forced looked of disgust, as if to say, _you’re a creepy old man, too.  You’re no better than that man who’s waiting for me inside the bar._ By the look on his face, he seemed to get the message, but he kept trying nonetheless. “I don’t have any way to get in touch with you.”

 

I shrugged.

 

“Can you at least give me your phone number?”

“I’d rather not,” I said, with an overly polite smile.

 

“Why are you being like this?”

“Because I’m not under any obligation to speak to you.”

 

“I’m just trying to reach out, Elio.”  My name on his lips in this sentence jarred me.  It was familiar and foreign all at once, like finding out that all the ancient graffiti on the walls of Pompeii just translates to _I fucked your mom_ or _you’re gay._ People were people, and they were the same, and my name was the same, and it sounded the same coming out of Oliver’s mouth, which also looked the same as it had the previous summer.   _The meaning of the river flowing._

 

Forget about that, I thought.  I had to leave. “Well, that’s nice, but, uh--” Fuck, I had forgotten his name again.  “I’m on a date, so.”

 

“With a fifty year old man.”

 

“Yes,” I replied, smiling as if to say, _Aren’t you proud of me?_ Twenty-four, fifty.  Oliver was just a rung on a ladder, I told myself, a ladder that climbs higher and higher, endlessly reaching towards some insatiable perversion inside of me, the desire to be hurt, the desire to know that I am worth hurting, and worth wanting.

 

“Elio, please don’t go back in there.  You’re drunk, let me take you back to your apartment.”

 

“Dorm,” I corrected.  “I live in a dorm, not an apartment.”

 

“Right,” Oliver said, sighing.  “Where is your dorm?”  
  
“I have a roommate.  His name is Jamie. We have bunk beds.”  This was an illogical progression of the conversation, a complete non sequitur, but drunk as I was, I wanted to tell him.  I wanted him to know that I slept in a bunk bed, I wanted him to know my roommate’s name, I wanted him to know who all of my friends were, I wanted him to know about the pieces I was practicing on the piano and guitar, the competitions I’d be entering, what I’d been composing, and that I had an A in music theory, a class that most people got Cs in.  I wanted him to know these things, and yet, I felt as though he had no right to know.

 

I wanted him to know that I was getting on well.  But I guess I also wanted him to know that I was having sex with strangers who didn’t give a shit about me and never would.

 

It left me in a strange position, pulled in two directions at once and giving in equally to both, but at different times.  It tore at me, and it hurt. I wanted him gone forever, I wanted him here forever, I wanted to punch him, I wanted to kiss him, I wished I had never met him, and I was so so glad that I had.

 

“Okay?” Oliver said.  “What school do you go to?  NYU?”  
  
I snorted.  “Oh, come on.  I can do better than NYU.”

 

His face drained.  “Columbia?”

“Wrong again.”  Why would I go to Columbia?  I wanted to be a musician. He really didn’t know me at all.

 

“Okay, so where do you go, then?”

 

“Right now, I go...” I said, pausing and tilting my head, forcing a look of cold and mocking indifference onto my face.  “Right now, I’m going back into the bar.”

 

“Elio.  Come on.  You’re being ridiculous.”

 

This sent a rush of anger over me, the same rush of anger that I felt every time I remembered that Oliver once told me, _grow up._ It hadn’t bothered me when I first read it, as I was so overwhelmed by the second sentence in the note, but retrospectively, it was condescending in a way that I hadn’t deserved.  I had been seventeen, I _was_ growing up.  I just hadn’t gotten all the way the there yet.  He had acted as if it was somehow my fault that I hadn’t been twenty four like he was.  I didn’t ask to be born in the year that I was. Perhaps if my parents had conceived me earlier, I would have lived up to his standards, but that was their mistake, not mine.

 

“ _You’re_ being ridiculous, thinking that I’d go home and just because you showed up and told me to.  You’re lucky I agreed to talk to you at all. You should go home. It’s late. I’m sure your wife is wondering where you are.”

 

He paused.  “Is that what this is about?”

 

“Is what what with this is about?”  
  
“Me getting married.”

 

“What do you think, Oliver?”

 

“If you’re mad, then, honestly, I don’t think you have a right to be.  But at least let me take you home. I don’t like this situation, and I’m... I’m worried about you.”

 

“Don’t be,” I said.  “Whatever ends up happening, I can take it.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“It means I’m not some sensitive kid anymore.  Thank you for that.”

 

Oliver looked hurt and horrified and ashamed all at once, like he just ran over his own puppy.  “Can you at least give me your phone number?”

 

I didn’t answer.  Instead, I began to walk away.

“I’ll just get it from your dad!”

 

“Good luck!” I called back to him.  I was a fast walker, and by this point, I had walked maybe twenty feet away from him.  The distance plus the the noise from the bar forced me to yell. “I share a telephone with all the kids who live on my floor!”

 

Without turning around to see his reaction, I walked back into the bar.  I went back to the seat where I had left Gabe, but he was gone. I looked around the bar for a little while, but I couldn’t find him.  In the minutes that I had spent talking outside with Oliver, Gabe had left.

 

I guessed I wasn’t worth waiting around for.


	2. Chapter 2

I received an email from Oliver three days later.  It was a late when I saw it, and I had just returned home from one of the practice rooms.  Since seeing Oliver at the bar, I had been unable to think about much else. I buried myself in my work, spending every spare moment hunched over a textbook or a keyboard.  Classes and rehearsals always went late at Julliard, but I kept working long after that. Sometimes I would take a break for dinner, and sometimes I would just skip it. I rarely spoke to my friends.

 

I left the room before Jamie woke up and came back after he fell asleep. He seemed irked by this, and a little bit concerned.  He never said anything, but he started doing overtly nice things for me that he probably thought were discreet.. He left sandwiches for me on my desk and bought a special type of coffee that claimed to be from Italy.  It wasn’t great, but I appreciated the thought.

 

Jamie had already fallen asleep, and I had only turned on the computer to double check that I had completed all of my assignments (I had).  But I saw a new email in my inbox, from a Columbia University address. I knew I shouldn’t click on it. I knew it would only distract and upset me, but there was a part of me that wanted to be distracted and upset.  I missed the days of being seventeen years old and sobbing into my pillow every time Oliver so much as looked at me in a different way. I hadn’t cried in months, now, and I missed it. I opened the email.

 

_ Dear Elio, _

 

I tore my eyes away from the screen.  Just those two words were too much for me.  They were all I had wanted, all I had wished for for months.  Just for Oliver to return my letters, just for Oliver to call me back.  I hadn’t understood why he completely cut off contact with me after promising to stay in touch.  I hadn’t understood why he would talk to my father on the phone but refused to talk to me. And now, I couldn’t understand why after all of that, he suddenly wanted to talk to me.

 

A tight pinching in my chest.  It hurt, quite acutely. Was I having a heart attack?  Was I having a heart attack just from two words of Oliver’s email?  Was that possible?

 

I exhaled slowly through my mouth, and went back to the email.  If I was going to die from a heart attack, I’d do it while reading Oliver’s words.  Then, the last thing I’d experience would be the imagined sound of Oliver’s voice in my head, the knowledge that he cared enough to contact me, and that eclipsing, pulling feeling that his words had on me.  And if I were to die, I would die with the computer on and his email open, and he would know that that was what killed me.

 

_ Dear Elio, _

  
  


_ It was good to see you last week.  I apologize if I overstepped; the situation concerned me and I was worried for your safety.  I hope everything turned out fine, and that you’re alright. I know that you probably don’t want me to tell you what to do, and I know it’s not my place, but I’d recommend being a bit more discreet in the future.  You’re not in Crema anymore. _

 

There it was again, that condescension.  I couldn’t stand it. And yet, I read on.

 

_ I got this email address from your father.  I got your phone number too, but you were right that it would be hard to contact you there.  You were never in your dorm when I called, or it was someone else’s turn to use the phone. So I asked your father for this address, and he gave it to me.  Again, I apologize if that is overstepping, but I wanted to get in touch with you. _

 

Another apology, another excuse.  I didn’t understand him, I never would.

 

_ Your father told me that you’re at Julliard.  That’s incredible! I should have known that you wouldn’t be at Columbia or NYU, but at Julliard, with all the other prodigies.  I hope that everything is going well there. I wish that someone had told me you’d be going to college in New York. I would have reached out earlier.  I have to say, I wasn’t expecting you to end up in the States. I thought you would stay in Europe. It’s hard to imagine you in America, running around New York.  It’s strange to think that you’re in my territory now; I have a lot of trouble wrapping my head around the idea that you exist on this side of the ocean, too. _

 

_ I’m sure your parents were completely fine with you moving thousands of miles away, but it would worry me if you ended up somewhere like California, or even Boston.  I’m glad that you’re in New York. It’s good that you’re so close, so I can make sure that you’re okay here. I know that New York is very different from Crema, or Milan, I’d imagine, although I’ve never been, and I want you to know that if you need any help, or if you’re having trouble adjusting at all, I’m here. _

 

_ Things are somewhat busy at the moment, but I’d like to see you.  Do you want to get lunch some time? _

 

_ Let me know, _

 

_ Oliver _

 

I had no idea how to respond.  Why did he want to meet up with me suddenly?  For a year, he never bothered to return my letters, and now he was suddenly desperate for contact.  I didn’t understand it.

 

I had to turn him down, obviously.  I couldn’t let him hurt me again, as I knew he would, and I wanted him to suffer through rejection just like I had.  By this point, I had grown to hate him for what he had done to me, and felt that there was no way he wanted to meet me without some type of ulterior motive, and even if he didn’t have one, I didn’t know if he deserved to see me again.  I began to draft my rejection email.

 

_ Dear Oliver, _

 

_ It was nice to see you too. _

 

Wait a second, no it wasn’t.  It was incredibly unpleasant, and I didn’t enjoy it at all.  I started over.

 

_ Dear Oliver, _

 

_ Everything turned out fine, so there is no need to _

 

Too much detail. He didn’t deserve all that effort, and he didn’t deserve to know that I was okay when, despite the fact that nothing bad had happened  _ that particular night,  _ I knew that I wasn’t okay.  Why should I reassure him that I was fine, when he was the reason that I was not fine?  Another draft.

 

_ Dear Oliver, _

 

_ Yes, I’m at Julliard.  Perhaps I would have told you if you ever bothered to pick up the phone. _

 

No, too rude, too aggressive.  Shows too much that I cared. I needed to be more dismissive.

 

_ Dear Oliver, _

 

_ I’m doing fine in New York and don’t need your help.  I really don’t understand why you’re suddenly so “worried” about me, when you didn’t seem worried at all when you decided to cut off all contact with me with no explanation. _

 

Oh my god.  This was going terribly.  That email would definitely prove that I cared.

 

Email, I mused, made it much easier and convenient to hide what you were feeling.  I could never pull this off in person; this useless stop-and-start would make me look stupid, hysterical, even.  And to do it on a letter would use up paper, as I’d have to get a new one every time. I could have crossed out everything, but it still would have been visible on the page, and again, that stop-and-start would give me away.

 

I had to tell Oliver that I did not want to get lunch with him, but do it in a way that didn’t betray the fact that it was because it would hurt so terribly to see him.  (And yet it hurt terribly to stay away? I didn’t understand. What was wrong with me?)

 

_ Dear Oliver, _

 

_ No. _

 

I could just leave it like that, I thought.  Effective.

 

Effective and stupid.  God, I was stupid. I hated myself.

 

Jamie turned over in his bed.  “Elio,” he groaned. “It’s four in the morning.  Go the fuck to sleep.”

 

“I have to write this email first,” I said.

 

“Do you think whoever you’re sending it to will be awake to read it right now?  Wait until the morning. Go to sleep.”

 

I hesitated, taking in Jamie’s words.  I knew he was correct, but for some reason, I felt that I needed to have the final draft of the email prepared tonight, even if I was going to wait until morning to send it.

 

“Elio,” Jamie said, “You’re killing yourself.  Go to sleep.”

 

“Fine,” I agreed.  I climbed up to my bed--the top bunk, because I felt like that somehow gave me more privacy than the bottom bunk.

 

“What time is your first class tomorrow?”   
  


“Eight.”  I was fucked.

 

“So is mine.  We’re getting breakfast together before, okay?  We’re going to the dining hall.”

 

I groaned.  “But it’s so early!  I’d rather sleep.”

 

“Then maybe you shouldn’t come home at four in the morning, Ellie.”   _ Ellie.   _ That was his nickname for me, and he always spoke it with a soft affection, indicating that anything said before or after it was not meant to hurt.

 

I smiled in spite of myself, just at the warmth in Jamie’s voice.  Something about him reminded me of my father, though I could never really put my finger on what it was.  Perhaps it was the way he tended to think of people as good until proven otherwise, or the way he freely gave out love without possession or constrictions.  He felt good to be around; kind, nurturing, wise beyond his years. He made me feel like I mattered, and I deeply needed that.

 

In the morning, he dragged me out of bed and to the dining hall.  I ate a piece of toast with butter, because the eggs were slimy and the fruit seemed to be coated in some strange liquid and the coffee tasted like piss.

 

“If the dining hall doesn’t get better, I’m going to starve to death by the end of the semester.  Or get scurvy. I haven’t eaten a vegetable in two weeks.”

 

“You know, the food is bad, but I think you’re the only one being  _ this  _ dramatic about it.”

 

I didn’t argue with him, because he was probably right.  I had a talent for complaining that seemed to supersede my talent for the piano, or my talent for anything, for that matter.  I had grown to be quite proud of this: it meant that I knew the way I should be treated. I knew the way  _ people  _ should be treated.  And there were certain things in my life that were simply not okay.

 

The day passed me by, and I had no time to return to the computer to reply to Oliver’s email, so I didn’t.  I decided not to reply--what could be more dismissive than that? What could possibly show that I cared less?  Nothing, I thought. I had won.

 

It was a pathetic victory, though, like a child making a cutting remark towards their parent in an argument, only to be grounded immediately after.  Because when it came down to it, Oliver had won, hadn’t he? He was the one to be married. He was the one to be happy. He was the one who had found love, and found someone who wanted him back.

 

I had nothing like that.  No one wanted me, not really.  They never really had. I did a lot to compensate for this: I worked hard in school, rose to the top of my class.  I read frequently. I tried to cram my brain with facts so that I could seem well-educated and intelligent. I did what I could to make up for my flaws, which were apparently so extreme that Oliver felt justified in treating me the way he had.   _ If you’re mad, I don’t think you have a right to be.   _ He must have really thought I was horrible; he must have really hated me.

 

But the thing was, I didn’t exactly know what the flaws were.  I didn’t know the exact reason that Oliver had abandoned me, and no one would tell me.  What was it that made me unworthy of his love? What was it about me that relegated me to nothing more than a sex-toy?  Because that was what I was, wasn’t I? That was what I was to the men I fucked, that was what I must have been to Oliver that summer.  I really didn’t understand what it was that inherently made me a whore.

 

Because I didn’t know exactly what it was that was wrong with me, I began to grow paranoid.  I  _ knew  _ that I was being paranoid, but that didn’t exactly help.  I found faults everywhere. Perhaps there was something wrong with my face?  I did look young for my age, and I occasionally got pimples around my jawline.  Perhaps Oliver thought that made me unhygienic, disgusting. I started taking two showers a day and bought expensive acne treatments.  Or maybe the problem was my body. Was I too thin? There wasn’t much I could do about that--even when I was stuffing myself with Mafalda’s cooking, I was always pretty skinny.  I could try to eat more at the dining hall, but on more than one occasion, they had served me raw chicken, so I thought that may have the opposite of the intended effect.

 

Perhaps the problem was with my personality.  That would have been ideal, because I was capable of changing it.  But I didn’t know what to change. I knew I came off as smart, so that wasn’t a problem.  But maybe I came off as pretentious? I tried to shut my mouth more, speak less about what I knew and what I was passionate about.  All the facts I had learned to make myself seem more intelligent only surfaced when I was directly asked about them, which was infrequently.  Then I worried I was being too quiet, so I started talking about useless, mundane matters. I became a master at small talk, even though I hated it.  Perhaps I wasn’t friendly enough? I smiled more.

 

Eventually, I felt like I had lost sight of my entire identity.  Everything felt like a facade, but I had no idea what lay beneath the facade, other than a bone-deep sadness and a clawing desperation.  But being sad wasn’t a personality trait, was it? Could I morph it into one? Would that please Oliver, would he like to see me sad? If he saw me cry, would he pity me and return?

 

Probably not.  Oliver had once held me in his arms as I sobbed, crying, “I don’t want you to go.”  It hadn’t made any difference; he left.

 

Maybe I was bad at sex.  So I practiced. I became quite submissive in bed, letting anyone to anything they wanted to me, regardless of if I actually liked it.  I became good at biting my tongue, so that if Oliver ever decided he  _ did  _ want something from me, I could give it to him even if I didn’t want to.  I would let people choke me, slap me, tie my up and leave me there. I let people blindfold me, piss on me, kick me out after without letting me shower.

 

The worst was when people called me names.  I tried to be tough, tried to take it, but I would always cry afterwards.  They’d call me pathetic, desperate. Sometimes they would call me stupid, or ugly, or worthless, although that was a bit more rare.  But always, every single time, they would call me a slut, a whore.

 

They were right; I was a whore.  Only a whore would demean themselves in such a way, only a whore would spend weeks seducing his father’s student, only to be heartbroken when he left, as I always knew he would.  I deserved to be called these names, I deserved to be treated so poorly. I felt that somehow, all this degradation and pain could morph me into someone better, someone tougher, someone worth loving.

 

But what was the point of all of this, if I was just going to ignore Oliver and his emails?  He would never see how hard I was working to be better. But I couldn’t stop--I couldn’t stop changing myself, and I couldn’t make myself email him back.

 

Eventually, Oliver sent another email.

 

_ Dear Elio, _

 

_ I’m sure that you’re very busy with schoolwork and forgot to reply to the first email that I sent you.  I wanted to check in with you and see how you were doing. I also wanted to check about lunch. When would be a good time for you?  I can do this Saturday or Sunday. I’m also free on some weekdays, but it’s a bit tight. Let me know. _

 

_ Oliver _

 

I spent an hour drafting a reply, but ultimately decided against sending anything.  If Oliver had done nothing wrong, than neither had I. If it was acceptable for him to not reply to any of my letters, than it was acceptable for me to not reply to any of his emails.  There was no reason for these things to change now that I was in New York. No reason at all.

 

Oliver sent another email.  This was somewhat predictable, as I had continued to send him letters for months, hoping that maybe he would finally reply to one.  I wondered if he ever even read them. Part of me hoped that he hadn’t. There were some that were extremely humiliating, in retrospect.  In one, the paper was stained with tears, and I had written, over and over again,  _ Please come back Please come back Please come back Please come back Please come back Please come back Please.   _ One was short, and all I had written was,  _ I miss you when I’m brushing my teeth.   _ Another one,  _ I don’t understand why you want write me back.  I’m so confused, I thought you cared about me. You promised to stay in touch, I don’t understand.   _ Another,  _ I’m sorry if I did anything to make you upset with me and that’s why you’re not writing back.  I’m sorry for whatever I did. I never meant to do anything to make you angry with me, please just tell me what I did wrong.   _ Another one was,  _ I miss you so much I can’t breathe.  I don’t know who I am without you, it hurts so bad.  My dad says that it’ll get better with time but all I do is cry and it’s not going away.  I’m trying to be better but I can’t stop crying all the time. I understand that you can’t come back or just don’t want to see me again, but can you please just call me or write to me?  I guess that you don’t like me anymore but I just need something, please. _

 

The last letter I ever sent him just said,  _ I hate you. _

 

That was months ago.

 

Oliver’s email, today, said:

 

_ Dear Elio, _

 

_ I’ve double-checked that I’m sending these to the right address.  Emailing again about lunch. Let me know when you want to meet. _

 

_ Oliver _

 

I decided to reply, just to get him off my back.  It took a while, but eventually I came up with a response that was cold, dismissive, and polite all at once.

 

_ Dear Oliver, _

 

_ Unfortunately I’m rather busy with school work and won’t have time to get lunch with you. _

 

_ Thank you for the offer, _

 

_ Elio _

 

But Oliver didn’t give up that easily.  He sent another email.

 

_ Elio, _

 

_ If you’re busy during the day time, I can do dinner.  Let me know what day works for you, I finish work by five every night. _

 

_ Looking forward to seeing you, _

 

_ Oliver. _

 

I replied again, promising that this would be the last time I did.  Any future emails, I would ignore.

 

_ Oliver, _

 

_ The workload at Julliard is very intense and I won’t have time to get dinner any time in the foreseeable future. _

 

_ Elio _

 

Oliver replied a few hours later.

 

_ Elio, _

 

_ I find it somewhat difficult to believe that you haven’t had time for a single meal since starting at Julliard, and that you won’t eat a meal for your entire time there.  I’m not suggesting a five course dinner, I’m asking you to meet up for an hour so we can catch up. _

 

_ Oliver _

 

If were were on better terms, I might have made some sort of weird joke about learning to photosynthesize since the dining hall food is so bad, but we weren’t on good terms, and I didn’t want to pretend.  I decided to be honest.

 

_ Oliver, _

 

_ I’m not interested in getting dinner with you. _

 

_ Elio _


End file.
